


The one where Lance is not stupid

by ysse_writes



Category: NSYNC, Popslash
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-14
Updated: 2011-09-14
Packaged: 2017-10-23 18:01:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/253242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ysse_writes/pseuds/ysse_writes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Previously untitled Trickyfish ficlet for D.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The one where Lance is not stupid

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not know these people, none of this is true.

Chris looks up from the television set, frowning. The movie's almost ending and Lance is missing the big climax, literally speaking.

Granted, watching porn with the object of his unrequited lust for the last four or so years may not have been a very good idea. But what was one to do when said object shows up on one's doorstep suddenly, after months and months of jetsetting and hobnobbing with the entertainment elite, with a cheery smile, a bottle of tequila and an armful of DVDs?

"I come bearing gifts!" he'd said, and made himself at home on Chris' couch. "The pizza's on its way."

It figures, Chris thinks, that just when he was feeling all forlorn and bitter and was _this_ close to deciding he hated and didn't really want Lance's debatably sorry ass after all, it would show up unexpectedly and remind him of its many varied and wondrous charms.

Like how said ass would laugh deep in his throat and delicious shivers would run up and down Chris' skin.

Or how said ass would look at him from underneath deceptively long lashes, wonky green eyes strangely intent, and Chris' mouth would grow dry and his stomach would clench.

Or how said ass would snark, had raised snarking into an art form, really, delivering barbs so subtle, his humour so dry, that usually only Chris got it and the laughter became something that linked them, becoming personal jokes just the two of them would share.

Or how said ass would fill out increasingly tighter designer jeans.

Hey, euphemisms can only go so far.

On the plus side, when one gets horny while watching the porn said ass has brought, one has a ready-made and convenient excuse. Only, it's proving to be useless since Lance excused himself a good twenty minutes earlier to take a phone call on his cell and had yet to return.

Probably another business deal, Chris thinks, a little sulkily. Lance is probably in negotiations to buy the Trump Tower, or something.

He wonders again where this hiatus thing had gone wrong. On paper it had seemed like a good idea, a great idea, even. Rest! His aching back had screamed. Entire days off! Sleep, for the love of God! Eating disgusting things from out of cartons! In his underwear! Sure, he'd known that the guys had plans for the hiatus, he'd even had a few of his own. But he hadn't counted on his friends' energies, their inability to just kick back and chill for more than a few hours at a time. He hadn't counted on the never-ending, increasingly more ambitious projects, the single-minded pursuit of success and excellence. And he hadn't counted on the months of separation, weeks going by without hearing from his four best friends. He hadn't counted on missing them all so much.

On missing Lance so much.

On paper that had seemed like a good idea, too. He'd thought that if they didn't see each other everyday then he wouldn't have work so hard at hiding his feelings. He should have known that plan would backfire, too. That freed from their moorings his feelings would run wild, and only be harder to cage.

Chris laughs, because he's becoming maudlin and if there's two things that decidedly do not mix, as far as he's concerned, it's porn and poetry. That is, unless he can talk Lance into a dirty limerick showdown.

He decides to look for Lance and see what's taking him so long. Ass or no, he's really missed Lance. He'd rather spend time with him than see the ending of the movie.

 

He finds Lance in the study – well, it was supposed to be his study – and Chris is about to make some lame joke about Lance's sense of direction when he notices the expression on Lance's face.

"Hey," he says, softly. "Bad news?"

He's one step into the room when he sees the black leather binder in Lance's hands and freezes.

"I was looking for a pen," Lance explains.

Chris hasn't seen that binder in a while, he'd almost forgotten that's where he kept it, in that rarely opened drawer in his barely used desk in his so-called study. The company logo and slogan embossed on the outside is unmistakable and blatant; 'Give the gift of stars!' in almost-vulgar silver curlicues. The designer knew his job well, Chris doesn't hold any hope that Lance hasn't already looked inside, hasn't read the name inscribed on the certificate.

"You bought this for me," Lance says, his face pale, emotions struggling but kept tightly in check. "Had a star named after me."

One of the things Chris loves most about Lance is he's not stupid, not by a long shot. He never needs the obvious explained to him. Chris tries anyway.

"It seemed like a good idea at the time," he says, quietly. "And then it seemed kinda lame. And then… horribly inappropriate." He shrugs, helplessly. "I'm sorry. I should have—"

Lance looks at him in surprise. "No," he says, quickly, hands tightening on the leather. "It's cool." He smiles, a smile Chris knows he had to fight for. Space is still a touchy subject, no matter how positive Lance may sound during interviews. "It's a great gift. Thank you." Chris nods, watches as Lance carefully places the leather binder on top of the desk, then begins to rummage through the drawer again. "So where is it?"

"There's one by the hallway phone," Chris says, relieved that it's over. "I'll go get it for you."

Lance laughs. "Not a pen, you dork." That smile came a bit easier. "These things usually come with a star chart telling you where the star is. So where is it? I wanna know where the James Lance Bass is."

Chris has always been a great believer in karma, in consequences. He knows the truth always has a way of revealing itself and BS always comes home. He's always believed that when the time came to pay the piper he would face it squarely, looking death straight in the eye, no regrets for the things he's done, how he's lived his life.

It's a little deflating, to learn that his first instinct is actually to run for the nearest exit.

Lance is still sifting through the assorted junk Chris has managed to accumulate in that drawer. Chris hopes there aren't any half-eaten candy bars in there, or his nephew's still-missing garter snake. "God, man, this drawer is a mess, come and help me look."

He could lie, Chris thinks. He could pretend to have lost the damn thing. Things got lost in drawers all the time; it was a cosmic law, or something. He could blame it on gnomes, maybe.

He sighs. This is Lance and Chris never lies to his brothers, not about the important stuff. Not about... Not about the important stuff.

"It's not there," he tells Lance. "I… I'll go get it." He wants to tell Lance to wait, but he's already rising, following Chris out of the room.

 

Passing through the den Chris catches the last seconds of the movie – the last kiss, the fadeout, the music and the credits, rolling relentlessly, inevitably, towards the end. He goes to the hall closet, reaches for the wallet he left in the pocket of his jacket, pulls out a battered piece of parchment from its depths. It always amazes Chris how he manages this, manages to cram this huge piece of paper so compactly, so efficiently, in that limited space. The entire known Universe and he has it in his wallet, lodged between some credit cards and a number for the great Chinese place with the stuffed tofu. (Any place that can make him eat tofu is automatically great by definition.)

The map had spent an entire year, safe and untouched in that desk drawer. He doesn't even remember the first time he took it out, just to look at it, tracing a path of sorts towards the small dot, almost lost within the Taurus constellation. He does remember it happening with increasing frequency, remembers how it made the move from the drawer in his study to the drawer on the nightstand beside his bed, and then, finally, to here, in his wallet, which he always had with him.

He unfolds it carefully now, flattening it against a wall, painfully aware that while the Universe is being revealed, his own is unraveling.

Lance is waiting. And Lance is not stupid.

Lance's eyes are wide open, staring at him, but there's a shuttered look to them. When Chris tries to hand over the map Lance actually takes a step back, wary, confused.

Chris doesn't wait for him to ask.

"I… I lost you," he says, "for a while. I didn't…" He smiles ruefully. "This damned hiatus." He sighs, leans against the wall tiredly. "It was bad enough when you were in Russia, but..." He takes a deep breath. He's never imagined this scene, this confession, but it's still harder than he thought it would be. "It was worse when you came back. I didn't... I didn't know where you were. Where you'd gone." He doesn't need to explain that he doesn't only mean it physically. When Lance returned there'd been a wall that hadn't been there before, one Chris hadn't known how to breach. It had hurt even more than the months of separation, frightened him more than the thought of Lance being half a world away. "I didn't know how to get to you, how to find you." Chris looks down at the paper in his hand, then raises his head to look at Lance straight in the eyes. "Except here," he concludes. "I could always find you here."

"You fuck."

The words are low, quiet, heavy with some emotion Chris has yet to define. Anger, maybe. Disappointment. Disgust.

Chris doesn't flinch from them. Instead he refolds the map, always so carefully, and tries again to give it to Lance.

"You _fuck_." The words are stronger this time, louder. Lance's eyes are glittering, blazing.

Definitely anger, Chris thinks. Rage, even.

"Shit." Chris feels the wall at his back, keenly. His heart stops, his chest hurts and he tries desperately to breathe. He wants to take it back, turn it into a joke, find a way to invalidate the recent outpouring of his heart. He can't. He'd thought he'd been prepared for rejection, but he's wounded. He can only stand there, stunned, vulnerable, _bleeding_. "Shit, Lance."

The map falls from his hand, unnoticed.

"All this time," Lance growls, harshly, his eyes glaring accusingly. "In Russia. Even worse, when I came back…"

Chris thinks he may actually be dying. "I'm sorry," he whispers, because he doesn't know what else to say. "I'm—"

Lance grabs hold of his shirt, stilling his words, pushing him against the wall.

"All this time," he says again, hoarsely. "Do you have any idea how _alone_ I felt? How… how _lost_ I actually was? And all this time…" He laughs, suddenly, roughly, sounding more like a strangled sob, his forehead coming to rest against Chris' shoulder, leaning into it, resting. "All this time you had me," he whispers, soft and husky and there's warm moisture leaking into Chris' ratty shirt. "I wasn't lost, after all. You had me all along."

Chris holds still, then his arms raise slowly, tentatively, almost fearfully. He cups Lance's face, gently wiping away the tears he finds there with the pads of his thumbs. "I had you all along," he repeats, and it's not a question, but a discovery. He smiles, softly, his heart beginning to beat again. "All this time."

Chris isn't stupid, either.

Lance laughs again, and this time the laughter rings true, clear. He kisses Chris, his mouth tasting of tears but smiling, and his arms close around Chris' neck, holding on, tightly.

And Chris welcomes him home.

 

 

©JCSA/[2004](http://lisan.livejournal.com/2004/)-[01](http://lisan.livejournal.com/2004/01/)-[14](http://lisan.livejournal.com/2004/01/14/) 06:18:00


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